


Burried Memories

by SouthernBuck



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Coping Mechanisms, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Regression, Trauma, burried alive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:34:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28146168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SouthernBuck/pseuds/SouthernBuck
Summary: When a mission goes wrong and Arthur gets grabbed by Cornwall's men, they put him through something utterly traumatic.When he's finally rescued, Arthur isn't quite himself, and no-one is sure what to do.With everyone adapting to the new situation so fast, John starts to wonder if HE'S the crazy one for thinking this is all insane.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan & Van der Linde Gang, John Marston & Arthur Morgan
Comments: 2
Kudos: 63





	Burried Memories

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a drabble and ended up being forty pages long and I had to cut it down to even make it make sense. It's probably really obscure, forgive me.   
> Notes at the end to explain my sins.

Three days. Three damn days it had taken to find Arthur. Way too long, it’s a wonder he’s even alive. 

John glances over at his older brother riding behind Dutch on the Count. He’s white as a sheet and hasn’t said a word since they found him. It’s jarring. They’ve seen him beat up before over the years, tortured, drunk, sick, feverish. Nothing ever seemed to shake Arthur, but this was different, his eyes were still blown wide and he was hardly breathing, like he was permanently caught in a moment of terror.

He could hardly blame him though. Three damn days. 

It was only thanks to Charles they’d even looked for him at all. Dutch had been convinced he was a dead man when Cornwalls men had got him, insisted it was too dangerous to go looking, and that they would have tortured and killed him long before they would be able to regroup to get him back. It had been a rough few days, mourning the loss of a brother fallen while they licked their wounds, but then Charles had rode into camp insisting Arthur was alive and they needed to come quickly, and with shovels. 

John had never had the chance to find out where the man had gotten the information, but god was he grateful when they’d managed to haul the coffin out of the ground and pry it open to find Arthur still breathing inside. 

They’d had to stop Dutch from shooting the church reverend. Pathetic sobbing man that he was, insisting he was forced to keep his mouth shut under threats of death to his family as the man was buried alive three days ago.

God, three days. Three days. John can’t even imagine how maddening it must be to be trapped in a too-small coffin in pitch darkness underground for three days. Alone, cold, not sure if anyone is even coming for you. It makes him sick to think about.

“Maybe we should get him to a doctor, he looks a little worse for wear,” Javier suggests, riding up on the left of Dutch as he looks over Arthur, worry written on his features as the man’s glassy eyes stare into the distance. 

“He doesn’t have any major wounds, there ain’t much they’d be able to do. He’s just in shock,” Hosea explains softly from the right, eyes focused on the road ahead, clearly overwhelmed with guilt, “We’ll get him warm and fed, he’ll be fine after a good nights sleep and some space.”

“Bad business, all this,” Bill calls from behind them, “Christ who- Who buries a man alive?”.

“Sick bastards like Cornwall,” Dutch grunts. He hasn’t said much the whole journey, John can rarely tell what the man’s thinking, but against Hosea’s guilt it looks much more like rage. “Once we get him back on his feet, we’ll get that man and make him regret laying a finger on one of my men.”

When they finally trot into camp they’re met with relief and concern, a bustle of activity as the ladies rush over, and even uncle, to see the face of the man they thought was dead. John’s off his horse in an instant, along with Charles as they rush over to help the man down from the back of the Count. It was no easier a feat than it had been getting him on in the first place. Arthur was completely unresponsive, he didn’t so much as flinch when they maneuvered his limbs and dragged him, and he was heavy as a dead weight under both their arms. John didn’t consider himself physically weak by any means, but Arthur was built like a brick shithouse and weighed about as much.

“Get him to his cot. Miss Grimshaw, fetch the boy a blanket. Pearson, get some hot food going. Reverend, bring some whisky. Kid’s had a hell of a few days. rest of you, give him some space,” Dutch instructs sharply, sending them scattering.

“Christ you’re heavy,” John grunts quietly as they half drag half carry him to his tent, sighing in relief when they finally dump him down ungracefully on the small wire cot. He immediately sits back up the second his head touches the pillow, but still says nothing. Doesn’t even meet their eyes as he stares a thousand yard stare into the abyss. 

“Never seen him like this before. Hell, never seen anyone like this,” Charles mumbles as they step back. It’s the most John’s heard him say since they set out and it's enough to make him break his stare at Arthur to glance at the other man.

“Me neither. Christ I…” He sighs, guilt itching at his lower belly, “We should’a ignored Dutch, started searching right away. Maybe we’d have got to him sooner,”

Charles only hums in dismissive response, kneeling down next to the cot with his arms crossed, thoughtfully scanning the man before him. “Arthur?”

Still no response. Not that either of them had expected it. 

“He’ll be alright, you heard what Hosea said. Shock and stuff, just does strange things to the mind for a while,” John says quietly, unsure whether he’s reassuring Charles or himself.

“I’d be beyond shocked, I’d be flat out traumatised if that happened to me. I can’t even imagine going through something like that.” There’s an anger in his voice, and John can’t tell who or what exactly it’s directed at, so he stays quiet until Miss Grimshaw trots up next to them with a blanket and a bowl of soup, worry written all over her face.

“What happened?”

John shuffles back as the woman crouches down next to Arthur, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders and placing a concerned hand on his forearm. “He uh. They buried him in a coffin. Been down there a few days. Weren’t a pretty sight when we got him out, he was pretty ill. We cleaned him up, got some water in him. Then he just went like this.” He gestures vaguely

She runs a hand over her eyes briefly, nodding in quiet acknowledgement. “How long would he have survived if you hadn’t…?”

“There was airflow down there, it had one of those bells on a string. Though I suspect dehydration would have claimed him by the evening,” Charles says flatly, “We got him to drink most of a canteena before we came back but it’s probably best if someone keeps an eye on him. He might need a doctor, I don’t know enough about how long a man can safely survive like that.”

“What kind of sick bastards…” The woman sighs, running her fingers through the man’s dirty blond hair. He blearily turns his head to face her, eyes still distant but it’s still more a response than they’ve seen so far. “You’re okay now, Mr Morgan.”

“Where’s ma?” 

John and Charles exchange glances, relief and confusion written on both their features, but neither say anything. His voice is quiet and rough, probably from dehydration, but he looks confused, afraid. It’s a jarring sight on Arthur of all people.

“Did he bump his head?” Susan asks, eyes scanning over the two of them, clearly sensing their lack of information and turning back in an instant to pat Arthur’s knee. “Let’s have a look at that noggin’ of yours?”

Arthur shakes his head, leaning back from her a little wearily. “Don’t know you. Not supposed to talk to strangers.”

John puffs out a nervous laugh, the strangeness of the situation getting the better of him. “C’mon Morgan, snap out of it. Don’t be gettin’ crazy on us now.”

“Mr Morgan you’ve known me for twenty years, now lean down so I can check your head for wounds,” Susan reprimands him gently but forcefully, carefully maneuvering his shoulder so she can inspect his head. John left wondering how the older woman has always had such a brashness around Arthur, a man with the build of a bear who could probably easily break her arm if he wanted to, and yet he never seemed to push her back.

“Should I get Mr Matthews? He seems to have some medical knowledge” Charles asks slowly, expression as unreadable as ever but body language giving away his discomfort for the situation. 

John shakes his head, rubbing at his shoulder as he shifts from one sore foot to the other, watching Miss Grimshaw work. “Hosea knows snake oil and how to wrap a bandage, that’s about it. He talks a lot of big words but I ain’t sure how much of its actual knowledge and how much is just the conman in him. We should probably take him to a doctor or somethin”.

“I want to go home. Ma will be worried,” Arthur mutters awkwardly as Susan combs through his hair, looking more and more confused.

“Can’t find a single bump, bruise or cut. There’s no blood,” she confirms, releasing the man who shuffles away from her instantly, wrapping his large arms around his waist in a self comforting type motion. 

“Well he has to have knocked somethin’ loose in there, right? If he don’t know us,” John asks, gesturing with his chin to Charles. “Yeah okay, go grab Hosea. Maybe he can calm him down at least, bring some sense back into him or somethin’.”

Arthur rubs his wrist across his face to wipe his nose on his sleeve, looking cold and exhausted and utterly miserable. Eyes regaining their focus but now just darting around everywhere in a strange sort of paranoia. “I don’t know where I am.”

“You’re in a safe place, Mr Morgan. Don’t you worry. Here, have some soup and we’ll get you sorted in no time,” Mrs Grimshaw coos patiently, picking up the bowl once more and stirring it lightly to break up the skin forming on the surface. He watches her in mild alarm, like she’s an enemy and he’s being held hostage, but after a few moments hunger seems to outweigh the fear and he cautiously takes the bowl into his own lap and starts to eat.

It’s barely a minute before Charles returns with Hosea in tow, the older man’s brow creasing in worry. “What’s the situation?”

“He’s confused but I can’t find any evidence of a head wound,” Susan replies slowly, not taking her eyes off Arthur as he eats, rubbing a reassuring hand against his knee like a mother would do to a worried child. “Doesn’t know who we are.”

The elder man kneels down in front of them, patting Arthur’s other knee with his gnarled hand, making the man look up from his soup wearily, eyes like a cornered animal. “You feeling alright, Arthur?”

“Want my ma. Don’t know you.” He grunts, shoveling another mouthful of soup into his mouth eagerly. Clearly the last few days without food catching up with him terribly. 

Hosea hums quietly, not looking too phased by the odd response. He leans over Susan’s knees to grab the picture frame next to Arthur’s pillow, holding it up carefully. “This your ma?”

Arthur nods eagerly through his mouthful of soup, swallowing before taking the little frame to look over it in relief. “That’s my ma. Where is she? She’ll be worried. I’m lost.”

“Alright, we’ll help you find your ma. Tell me, Arthur, how old are you?” He asks slowly, brows furrowed as he watches the man put down his spoon to touch the glass of the picture fondly.

“Six and a half,” Arthur mutters without hesitation, carefully balancing the photo frame on his knees before picking his spoon back up and resuming scarfing his soup like a starved man.

John raises a brow at Hosea in incredulity, and Charles must have a similar confused look because Hosea glances between them with a shrug before turning his attention back to Miss Grimshaw. “You sure he hasn’t hit his head?”

  
“I can’t find any wounds,” She insists, throwing her hands up defensively.

“You know, I saw something happen like this to a feller in the army once,” Bill suddenly chips in, making John nearly jump out of his skin as the man pokes his head in between himself and Charles.

“Christ, does this look like the time for one of your damn army stories?” He grunts, shuffling to the side to make way for the broader man.

“I’m just sayin’!” Bill gripes back, crossing his arms and throwing John a sour look. “We had a feller called Robert on our patrol once, baby boy Bobby we started callin’ him. He’d got tortured over in some enemy camp then when we got him back over he started acting all weird thinkin’ he was a kid, suckin’ his thumb and cryin’ for his ma. Doctor thought it was something to do with the trauma, we all thought it was hilarious until he accidently shot himself with his gun thinkin’ it was a toy.”

“Jesus,” Charles mutters, shaking his head with a look of distaste.

John merely kicks at the dirt with his boot, returning Bill’s bitter glare. “You think his brain is messed up, that it?”

Looking about to snap something, Bill steps towards John threateningly but Hosea stands in time to put a hand between them. “Settle down. Bill might be onto something, for once.”

Bill puffs his chest out in pride for a moment, giving John a smug tilt of the chin before suddenly looking put out, “Wait, whaddya mean ‘for once’-?”

“You’re not serious?” John grunts, but Hosea just moves them apart from each other, looking deeply thoughtful. 

“He’s been through something traumatic, the mind does do strange things to cope sometimes,” The elder says slowly, carefully choosing his words, “The man was buried alive for christ sake, that’s enough to drive anyone mad. Perhaps his mind needs to go back to a safer time for his sanity’s sake.”

“What do you suppose we do about him?” Susan asks, eyes still fixed on the man as she gently takes the bowl when he finishes the soup, picking up a napkin to dab his face. 

Hosea merely shrugs one shoulder, looking a little lost himself. “Go along with it, I suppose?”

“You wanna encourage this?” John asks, throwing a hand to the side in an irritated gesture. “You want us to pretend that he’s six?”

“-And a half.” Hosea corrects, tilting his chin at John in warning. “If he’s behaving like this out of stress, and we continue to cause him further stress by shutting down the delusion, it might just make it worse. I say we just play along, just for a bit. See how it goes. Maybe he’ll come around in his own time once he calms down a bit. If nothing changes by tomorrow, we can ride out into Saint Denis and see if we can find a doctor”.

“This is crazy, I-”

  
“He does make a good point,” Charles cuts him off, resting his hands on his gun belt as he watches Arthur with an interested curiosity. “Can’t hurt to try.”

Arthur sits awkwardly watching them, wringing his hands in his lap as his eyes dart from person to person, no recognition in them at all. He looks worried, and beyond confused. Eventually taking the photo of his mother back in his hands to stare at longingly. 

Bill’s the one to break the silence, looking far too amused with the situation. “Hey Morgan, you wanna learn some cuss words?”

Arthur just squints at him in confusion, Hosea rolling his eyes and John shoves him in exasperation. “This is why you’ll never be a father to no-one.”

“Oh yeah, and you’re father of the year,” Bill hisses back.

“Enough,” Hosea snaps, pushing them apart once again and shooing Bill off towards the campfire. “It’s been a long morning, go and get fed and clean yourselves up. We’ll get things sorted.”

John grunts dismissively, waving a hand and glaring at Bill but dropping it all the same. Turning and heading down towards the river to do as he’s told.

“I already know all the cuss words,” He hears Arthur whisper to Miss Grimshaw as he leaves.

\-- 

John does feel less irritated, admittedly, after a change of clothes and a bowl of warm soup. It’s a confusing situation, and seeing the older brother he looks up to though would never admit it acting like a confused kid, was unsettling to say the least. But Hosea was right, they’d dealt with plenty of weird things before and this would go away on it's own time. Arthur would be fine after some rest.

He sits by the campfire, warming his cold feet while he nurses a cup of hot coffee. Around him, Lenny and Sean talk in hushed tones while Javier chops wood close by. Bill and Micha sit around the cards table, playing a few hands lazily over stacks of pennies, and Dutch hasn’t left his tent since they all got back, clearly seething away as he thinks up some sort of revenge plan. He’s never been graceful to take a hit.

Scanning the camp he eventually spots Arthur sitting with his back to an old tree with the girls, scribbling away in his journal while they darn socks and scrub laundry, having a lively conversation around the man. Nothing looks particularly abnormal and he lets his shoulders slump in relief. It almost feels surreal, yesterday they’d thought Arthur was dead.

Arthur was often grumpy and unsocial, but he was easily the central pillar to the gang. He was their best gun, did more hunting than most of the other men combined, and covered most of the chores too. He wasn’t the most talkative person; but he was valued for his kind gestures, his protectiveness, and his constant unwavering loyalty to their strange family. When they thought he was gone for good, it was suddenly like everything was crumbling around them. Miss Grimshaw had cried, so had Mary Beth and Tilly. Hosea had taken to the bottle, and even Sean wasn’t smiling anymore. No uplifting speech from Dutch seemed to rouse anyone’s spirits, and John wondered if the gang would have even survived without Arthur. 

They didn’t always see eye to eye or get along, but christ he was glad to have the big bastard back with them.

He putters around the camp for a bit, bringing water to the horses and avoiding Abigail as she tries to talk to him about Jack, earning him a swift kick to the shin. He doesn’t have guard duty today, and after the hard labor of digging up a damn coffin from six feet under he doesn’t much feel like traveling out for the rest of the day. Eventually he wanders over to the girls, perching on a rock and watching Arthur curiously as the man scribbles at the book in his lap.

John hasn’t seen much of what’s in that book, other than the occasional discrete glance over the man’s shoulder. Arthur keeps the damn thing close and has never been fond of sharing. The few times John had tried to sneak a peak when he was a teenager, he’d ended up being held upside down over the river. But the drawing the older man was currently working on didn’t look much like anything he’d seen before, in fact it looked more like something he’d see Jack draw. Scribbled trees and messy stickmen, it looks oddly out of place next to a detailed sketch of a horse on the page before. 

“How’s he doing?” He asks awkwardly after a moment, clearing his throat a little as Mary-Beth glances up from her sewing with a smile. 

“Seems happy enough, he’s drawing a portrait of us,” She replies sweetly, looking far too pleased with herself as she glances over his shoulder at the mess of scribbles. 

“That’s what that is?” He asks, brows raising in amusement, and Karen throws a sock at his head. 

“Leave him alone, it’s sweet,” She chides, glancing around to make sure Miss Grimshaw wasn’t watching before putting down her needle and thread and leaning over to watch the drawing too. “Which one is me again?”

Arthur points at one of the vague stick figures with a hum, “With the pretty dress”.

“You think these old rags are pretty?” she asks, hand on her chest like she’s talking to a sleeping kitten, making a sound of delight when he nods and returns to it. “You know, this new Arthur ain’t so bad.”

“He said my hair was nice and gave me a daisy to put in it,” Tilly informs John, gesturing fondly to the flower in her hair.

John only screws his nose up a little, shifting under the unsettling feeling it all brings. “None of you find this weird as all hell?”

“I mean, sure. It’s a little odd,” Mary-Beth offers with a dismissive shrug, moving back to her needlework with a smile, “but Hosea says it’s just temporary, that he’s been through something awful. Arthur’s always so quiet about everything, always helping everyone and doing everything without even accepting a thank you, works himself to the bone some days. It’s kinda nice to get to look after him for a change, it feels like he deserves it more than anyone.”

Grunting quietly, John glances over the scene once more before turning to find something else to do. He supposes she’s not wrong, in a way, but the situation was just too damn strange for him to adapt to at the drop of a hat. He figures perhaps it would be better to just avoid Arthur until all this blows over, IF it even blows over.

Christ, he can’t help but wonder. What happens if it doesn’t? What happens if Arthur really has turned a bit...simple? What would Dutch insist they do? He’s always preaching that they look out for their own and leave no-one behind but…

In practise, would he? If Arthur could no longer go on jobs or help around the camp, if he ended up not being useful anymore, would they still keep him around? Look out for him like the family he is? Or would Dutch find some way to cut him loose? Insist he would be better cared for in an asylum, or dump him off on a ranch somewhere, claiming he was an idiot who could do simple work in exchange for a barn to sleep in and some meger food?

It was hard to imagine without making himself feel sick, but at the same time, imagining keeping Arthur around like….this was almost as uncomfortable. The idea of sitting around the campfire talking to the man who helped raise him like an older brother, like he was a simpleton, a child. It was unnerving. It wouldn’t feel right. If Arthur was in his right mind, he’d hate being patronised like this. But he’s not in his right mind, and that scares John.

Before he knows it, he’s been wandering out in the surrounding forest for hours, barely paying attention to his surroundings, so lost in thought. Feeling mentally exhausted, he shoots a rabbit in the long grass before heading back, at least to have something to show for his absence.

The sight that greets him upon returning makes him double take before taking his carcass to Pearson’s chuckwagon. Arthur and Dutch are sat together at the games table building a tower of cards, Hosea sat in one of the other chairs with his feet up, looking to be reading aloud from a book. There’s something jarringly...happy about them. Like this wasn’t some terrifying, uncertain situation regarding Arthur’s wellbeing. 

He tosses down the rabbit, not even pausing to hear Pearson’s muttered thanks as he heads over to join them, frustration creasing the bridge of his nose. “Am I interrupting playtime or storytime here? Jesus-”

Hosea pauses his reading to glance up at John, eyebrows raised questioningly. Arthur glances up too for a moment, but quickly returns his eager stare to Dutch as the older man launches back into his spiel about life being like balance and how every move you make could make everything you’ve worked so hard to build come crashing down. 

“He ain’t feeling well, John. We’re just keeping him entertained,” Hosea murmurs, closing the book gently and putting it down. “Who spat in your porridge this morning?”

“This ain’t right and you know it, he wouldn’t want us...babying him like this. You know that,” John grits through his teeth, having a hard time watching Arthur as he stacks two more cards on the tower in deep concentration, a strange child like excitement in his eyes at how tall the structure was getting. Instead he fixes his gaze on Hosea with an irritated scowl. 

“No one is babying him,” Dutch chips in, placing his own cards in place. “We’re excusing him from work for the day because he was buried alive and needs to recover and regain his strength. I think he deserves that at least, don’t you?”

“I just-I don’t like that we’re…” John hisses in frustration, throwing his hands up and accidently knocking down their tower, scattering cards all over the table. He sighs a long sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose, taking a second to calm himself. “I don’t like that everyone is okay with just...treating this as normal.”

“He’s confused, John,” Hosea says, using that no-nonsense tone he reserves for the men around camp when they’re being stupid. “He just needs a little compassion.”

Arthur is staring at the mess of cards spread across the wooden table as Dutch starts to gather them up, shoulders slumped and eyes sad, looking like he’d just watched someone shoot a foal in the head. Dutch seems to notice, expression unreadable for a moment before he pushes the remaining cards to one side and chuckles, stacking two in the middle of the table once more. “Ah, see, just as I said. Life is fragile, no-matter how high you build your walls, sometimes all it takes is the slightest wobble or a gust of wind to bring everything crashing down. Hard as it is to accept sometimes, we can always start building again”.

“No, thank you,” Arthur mutters quietly, gravely voice tired as he stands from the table, picking up the few cards that had fallen on the ground before skulking off like a kicked puppy.

John can’t help but notice Dutch pinching the bridge of his nose, the look of a lost man washing over his face for a moment, “You think I’m any happier about this than you are?” 

“You seem to be taking it well,” John sneers, though his irritation falters when Dutch’s eyes narrow dangerously.

“He doesn't even recognise me, John. I near damn raised that man to be what he is today and he remembers none of it. I ain’t sure what to do, Hosea ain’t sure what to do, no-one knows what the hell to do about this. What do you expect us to do? Ship him off to a doctor, have them send him off to some loony bin in the city? Christ, we have to at least try this. He’d do it for you, and don't you damn well pretend you don’t know that,” The older dark haired man snaps, slamming his palm down on the table. 

Before John has a chance to open his mouth to retort, Dutch stands coldly, turning and heading to his tent. There’s uncertainty in his eyes that he doesn’t like, he wonders if it’s the same fear and uneasiness he feels. His eyes flick to Hosea, who merely shakes his head disapprovingly and returns his gaze to his book. 

“We’re all worried,” The elder man mutters quietly, turning the page with his thumb, “but Arthur, he’s been through hell and back. He’s always been strong for us, ever since he was a lad himself. It seems like at least for now, he just needs us to be strong for him for a while.”

Moving a hand almost unconsciously to drag through his greasy hair, John turns away, guilt nipping at him just the slightest. His mind shifts to Bill’s story from the morning, about a man shooting himself in confusion, deluded into thinking a gun was a toy, and finds himself wandering in the direction Arthur had wandered off to. Miss Grimshaw has long since confiscated the man’s weapons, but it didn’t mean the camp wasn’t full of others. Hell, one time Jack had picked up a hunting knife and nearly stabbed Sean with it, thinking it was a toy.

He turns the corner behind one of the tents, spotting the man over by the horses. He looks uncomfortable, lingering back as that O’driscol kid says something to him in hushed tones. He finds himself walking over at speed. Kid had been with them a while now, he seemed safe enough, but he had still been an O’driscol. Weren’t nothing standing in his way if he were to use the advantage of someone like Arthur’s vulnerability to make his escape.

As he approaches, the quiet conversation becomes more audible.

“Branwen is gentle as a lamb, she won’t hurt ya,”

“She don’t bite?”

“Naw, you wanna pet her?”

“No,”

  
“C’mon, it’s fine, really. Look, I’ll feed her a peppermint and you touch her nose, just like this. She won’t even notice if she’s eating, and her nose is real soft like velvet,”

John pauses a few feet away, curiously watching as Keiran takes a small peppermint candy from his back pocket and holds it out to the horse, who crunches it happily, then gently strokes her nose before moving his hand away. Arthur, almost hesitantly, stepping closer and slowly reaching out to do the same, lighting up almost immediately. 

It was odd to watch the man act as if he’d never touched a horse before, as if he hadn’t spent the last twenty years riding them and living with them and treating them like family. Branwen nuzzles at his palm and he starts laughing, clearly delighted, and Keiran joins in chuckling as he pulls another candy from his pocket for the horse to snatch up. 

He must notice John watching because he suddenly shuffles back with his hands in the air defensively in front of him. “I-I ain’t doin’ nothin. I...He looked upset and I….the horses he...he was nervous and I just wanted to help. I didn’t mean nothin’ by it, honest-”

Throwing a hand up dismissively, John sighs, feeling a tension headache growing behind his eyes. “Look just. He ain’t right at the moment. Stay away from him, okay. I ain’t trust you,” he grunts, regretting the threat a little as Arthur pulls back from Branwen’s soft nose and walk quickly back into camp with his head down, as if he was about to receive a beating or something. 

“I know he ain’t well, Mr Matthews told me he-”

John scowls, “He ain’t sick, quit talking like he is. That’s my damn brother. He’s just confused, that’s all. Damn idiot O’driscol,” he berates the younger, clenching his hands threateningly mostly for the thrill of watching the man squirm before him.

He twists around to stomp off as the younger sinks back behind his horse, traipsing back into the camp in irritation to scout out where the hell his brother had wandered off to now. Though he doesn’t make it ten steps before Sean’s right in his face, bottle in hand despite it only being mid afternoon.

“So what’s your deal with the big guy?”

“Excuse me?” John huffs, trying to step around him but being blocked again, quickly giving up and snatching the bottle to take his own long sip. It’s the kind of day he doesn’t mind starting early. 

“English over there. I know he’s all soft in the head right now, ain’t we all been there, but the old man thinks he’ll be alright if we keep up the act. Thought you’d be all over this, with your little rivalry goin’” The irishman teases, nudging him with his elbow and snatching back the bottle with a grin, “The man thinks he’s six for christ sake, ain’t you desperate to milk this for all it’s worth? Gather some dirt for the next time he pisses you off?”

“No! I mean...no!” John mutters incredulously, trying to grab at the bottle again only for it to be whisked back out of reach, frustration tugging down at the corners of his lip. “Don’t even know what you’re on about, christ.”

“Didja know his Birthday is June 28th?”

“Excuse me?”

“Told me himself. Me and Summers was on guard duty, doin’ the rounds, and I find the big feller sat in the grass by the edge of the forrest pickin’ flowers and knotting them like a crown. Said they was for his ma for her birthday, then started tellin’ me about his birthday,” Sean explains proudly.

John only frowns further, squinting in confusion, “What’s this got to do with anything?”

“Not even Dutch knows the big bastard’s birthday, I’d say it’s the best kept secret in camp, yet he just told me like he was tellin’ the time, no hesitation,”

He opens his mouth to reply, pauses to think, closes it again, then sighs through his nose. “You want me to take advantage of the fact he ain’t in his right mind?”

“I’m just sayin, make the most of a bad situation. Christ, you’d think that wolf tore the joy in life right outta ya,” Sean laughs, chugging another sip of his beer and finally scooting to the side so John can pass. “Imagine how pissed off he’s gonna be when we get him a cake, jaysus I hope he don’t remember any o’ this.”

“Get the hell outta my face, alright,” John snaps irritably, storming past, anger bubbling up again. It annoyed him enough that Dutch and Hosea were going along with this shit, but it pissed him off another level that some people were enjoying it.

Turning the corner he scans the camp, not immediately seeing any signs of the larger man. He strolls through slowly, taking in the activity of Bill and Javier heading off to cover guard duty and Abigail trying to wrestle Jack into his coat as he ponders where the bastard could have even wandered off too. Unsure why he even cared. Christ, there were enough people in the camp to keep an eye on him, it wasn’t even John’s job.

Still, he finds himself doing a few laps, peering discretely inside tents, glancing into wagons. It’s only when he reaches the beach he spots the familiar dirty blue striped shirt that his stomach drops in worry, pausing to watch the two figures before him for a moment too long.

Micha, the bastard. 

He doesn’t even know what they’re talking about but he’s on the move, jogging down the winding path towards the beach. Eyes never leaving the slimy blond man as he leans in close to whisper something to Arthur, who looks a little paler than usual, and a hundred times less threatening.

He doesn’t even make it to the bottom of the path before someone beats him to it though. 

Sadie seems to appear from out of no-where, grabbing the man’s shoulders and pulling him back harshly. “The fuck are you up to, Micha? He bothering’ you, Arthur?”

John hangs back to watch, partly in amusement and partly in curiosity to see how this plays out. Micha turn around like he’s just been touched by the shit coated hand of satan, throwing his hands up with a snarl, and Arthur ducks back a few steps silently, clutching something John can’t see against his chest. 

“Get your hands offa me, woman. Christ, can’t a man have a private conversation without some nosy bitch comin’ over to bother him in this damn place?” Micha snaps at her, giving her a shove.

Sadie only stumbles back slightly at the force, a wild look in her eyes as she steps forwards, which even has Micha sinking back a bit. John watches as another figure joins them from behind, Charles wandering up silently behind Arthur and putting a hand on his shoulder, mumbling something to him that John can’t make out.

“Not when that man is you, you slimy bastard. I don’t know what the damn hell you’re up to, but if you so much as say another word to Arthur before he’s better, I’ll have your damn balls in a jar on my shelf, ya understand me?” Sadie snarls in a way John thinks sounds almost feral, taking the knife from her belt threateningly.

Micha looks so disgusted by her, suddenly pulling the gun from his belt to aim at her. “You want to threaten me now? You ain’t nothin’ to this gang but some damsel in distress, which we rescued by the way, and now you think you got the authority to boss ME around?”

They seem to glare at each other menacingly for several moments, neither backing down nor making the first move. It’s only disrupted when there’s the sudden click of a pistol hammer and they both look around in unison.

At Arthur, who’s holding a gun shakily at Micha’s head. 

Micha, who for the first time looks actually threatened, drops his own gun in the rivermud and holds up his hands. “Easy, cowpolk. That...I was just kiddin’ about that. We ain’t playin’ no more.”

“Walk away,” Arthur growls. He sounds just as threatening as usual, looks just as threatening. Though the way the gun shakes slightly in his hand and the blown pupils in his eyes betray a fear that John isn’t sure he’s ever seen worn on Arthur.

“Whatever, whatever. I’m going, jesus,” Micha snarles, shuffling back a few steps, bumping into Sadie, who pushes him off roughly, then turning and darting back in the direction of camp like the pathetic rat he was. Shoving past John on the path with only a grunt.

Arthur doesn’t lower the gun until Charles steps slowly behind him and pries it from his hand. When Sadie steps towards him muttering a “you okay?” in a tone more gentle than John thinks he’s ever heard come from her mouth, Arthur suddenly turns and throws his arms around Charles. 

Charles, to his credit, only looks surprised and confused for a brief moment, before gently putting a hand on the man’s back and patting his shoulder comfortingly. All John can think is how strange it looks for Arthur to be hugging someone so openly.

“Christ, what was all that about?” John finally pipes up as he approaches, slowly moving across the beach to join them. “What was going on?”

“Said he wanted to play. Gave me this, told me it was a toy, that I should pretend to shoot everyone,” Arthur rumbles quietly, not moving from where his forehead is leaned against Charles’ shoulder, his voice is cold and slow despite the obvious tense fear in his shoulders. “I’m not stupid, I’ve used a gun before. Got angry with me for not playing, told me he’d bury me again and this time no one would find me.”

“Jesus,” Sadie breaths out as she slips her knife back into her belt, “That sick bastard really ain’t got no morals, huh?”

“Clearly,” Charles mutters, gently rubbing circle’s against Arthur’s shoulder as if comforting an actual child. “At least we don’t have to worry about him injuring himself like Bill’s friend”.

“What kinda six year old knows how to use a gun, anyway?” John muses aloud, kicking at the mud in irritation as he thinks about how to explain this damn situation to Dutch, not that the man would likely listen to a word of it.

“I need to go home or Daddy will be angry and shoot Ma again. I’m taking the gun,” Arthur says calmly, still latched onto Charles. The other man pulling a face and carefully handing the loaded gun to Sadie over his shoulder. 

“Ain’t goin’ nowhere, Arthur. You’re safe here in camp, Micha won’t bug you no-more,” Sadie murmurs as she unloads the gun and slips it into her holster. 

“Your mother is safe, I promise. Your father is far away from her,” Charles lies easily, which seems to calm the man down enough that he slumps against him.

John gives Sadie a short nod before turning around and heading back up the beach to camp. Arthur was fine, there were plenty of people in the camp to keep an eye on him right now. It didn’t need to be John.

Right now the headache building behind his eyes was starting to pound. He heads straight for his tent and flops exhaustedly into his cot, pulling the pillow over his head to block out the sounds of camp as he lets his muddled mind drift.

\--

When he wakes it’s to the smell of food cooking on the stove and the sound of lively music. Sunlight no-longer seeps in through the tent flaps, and the chill of the night sets into his stiff legs. Sitting up, John scratches at his stubbled face, running a hand absentmindedly over the scars that still paint his skin. Something feels sad in the back of his mind. The memories of Arthur shooting down those wolves without breaking a sweat, carrying him over his shoulder through the snow. The man has rescued him more times than he can count. He wonders if he’ll ever be able to do so again, or if that was the last time.

Cracking his bones as he stretches, he heads out into the chilly night air and joins the others around the campfire. Pearson is grilling fish over the fire as Hosea makes them laugh with stories about his and Javier’s fishing trip that afternoon, Javier trying to drown them out with a tuneful melody on the guitar which some of the women sing along to. He spots Arthur crouching in the dirt nearby with Jack, the two of them having a lively conversation about something while they roll little wooden trains around in the grass, Abigail watching over them fondly as she eats. 

He avoids making eye contact, for his own sanity’s sake. Instead heading over to sit on the log by the fire next to Uncle. He gives a grateful nod as Swanson hands him a plate of fish, digging into it quietly with his rusty fork as he lets his mind drift to the music, trying to imagine everything is normal.

And he almost can. Except he can’t help but notice Miss Grimshaw cutting up a plate of fish into little chunks before giving it to Arthur, like he’s a little child. 

Forcing himself to ignore it, he grabs a beer and cracks the lid open with his pocket knife before taking a deep drink. It didn’t matter, they were just playing along. It’s just for a little while, he keeps telling himself.

Except what if it isn’t.

Taking another deep drink and picking at his food in disinterest, John tries to turn his focus to the conversation sparking up between Bill and Lenny on the log opposite. Desperate for some kind of distraction from the anger that just keeps growing in his stomach to cover the worry.

“I’m SAYIN’ I don’t think it SHOULD be pronounced like that. If it’s spelled like Lannahechee, it should be said like Lannahechee” Bill argues, clearly frustrated with the argument as Lenny drops his head into his hands, looking more and more defeated by the second.

“You people is the ones that made the damn English language. I’m telling you, it’s Lah na hass ee. I ain’t making the rules I’m just tellin’ ‘em”

“Oh so you think you’re smarter than me just because you read books?”

“What do books have to do with any of this?! And yeah, maybe I am starting to think I’m smarter than you,”

“You wanna say that to my face, boy?!”

“I reckon I already DID”

“Will you two knock it off already,” Karen snips at them from over in the corner. “Lenny’s right, and neither if you is smart”.

John lets his shoulder’s relax a little, the droll of ridiculous conversations letting his mind drift from his troubles. He finishes his beer and cracks another, silently just enjoying the company, the normality of it all. 

It works, for a while. Until he’s distracted by the shrill laugh of Jack behind him, turning to watch as the boy slaps Arthur’s arm with an excited “TAG, YOU’RE IT” before bolting across the camp. Arthur, who for a moment seems dazed from the sudden topic change, seems to light up after a moment, grinning like an idiot and gently batting a large hand against Abigail's knee before getting up and scarpering.

Abigail, who’s laughing at their antics, stands and suddenly taps Uncle, who yelps a little as he’s snapped out of his drunken daze. “Tag, you’re it,” She chuckles, watching as the old man glances around in confusion before growing a playful grin, batting a hand against Bill before suddenly taking off at a faster pace than John thinks he has ever seen the man run.

“Whu-?” Bill mutters, entirely baffled as he watches the event, confused eyes then darting to Lenny who bolts up on top of the log like he’s just seen a spider. “Guess you’re it,” He laughs, to which Bill only looks more confused and outraged. Leaping to his feet, desperate to remove the ‘it’ status, slapping a hand on Javier hard enough for the man to nearly drop his guitar. 

“Hey!” Javier snaps, putting down the instrument and leaning over to smack Sean, who just laughs manically as he puts down his half drunk beer and leaps up to chase Lenny.

Sean tags Lenny, Lenny chases Karen, who tags Tilly, who tags Swanson, who looks beyond confused but tags Susan. John can only sit, mouth agape, as he watches Miss Grimshaw, despite her disapproving frown lines, as she storms over and tags Pearson, who slams his knife into his chopping board and ties the bandana around his neck instead around his neck like he’s going to war and starts running like a madman, people scattering around him in fits of giggles. 

It’s like madness unfolds around him. Pearson catches Charles, Charles grabs Abigail, Abigail grabs Jack, Jack tags Karen, Karen tags Sean. Lenny is volting over the games table to get away, Tilly and Mary-Beth are hiding under the chuck wagon in fits of laughter, Sean has to dive across the campfire to catch Javier, nearly setting himself on fire. Javier tags Sadie, Sadie tags Lenny AGAIN. Lenny tags Arthur.

Then Arthur, looking as excited as a child on Christmas, darts straight to Dutch’s tent and slaps a hand onto the man’s chest as he puffs on a cigar. There’s a moment's pause all around, a few wide eye’d watchers as everyone seemingly awaits the oncoming lecture.

Arthur, who seems to have noticed the odd tension, slowly pulls his hand away and steps back, muttering a near inaudible apology. 

Then without warning, Dutch slaps a hand on Hosea’s shoulder. “Tag,” and the madness resumes. Dutch laughing around his cigar as Hosea nearly doubles over in chuckles, standing and stumbling down to try to grab one of the people desperately trying to avoid him. He manages to pat Jack’s head, the child squealing in delight, immediately running right towards John and near throwing himself at his back, “TAG!”

“STOP IT!” 

It comes out kind of suddenly, as if the action had suddenly sent the anger bubbling in him way over the top. Jack stumbles back off of him in fear and the rest of the noise dies down in a second, John standing up furiously, unable to take anymore of this. “ARE YOU ALL INSANE? HOW ARE YOU ALL LAUGHING RIGHT NOW?” He shouts, tugging a hand through his hair in frustration before throwing it in the air in vague gesture. “I THOUGHT MORGAN WAS GOD DAMN DEAD YESTERDAY, NOW HE’S HERE BUT HE MIGHT AS WELL BE DEAD CUZ GOD KNOWS THAT AIN’T HIM ANYMORE. NOW YOU’RE ALL LAUGHIN’, PLAYING STUPID GAMES LIKE NONE OF THIS MATTERS.”

There’s an eerie silence and John can’t tell whether it’s guilt or anger that the people staring at him are feeling. Taking the moment of quiet he grabs his rifle and storms off. It’s not his turn for guard duty, but christ he can’t do it. He can’t stay here another second. It ain’t right. None of this is right.

As he passes, Hosea reaches out to grab him, but Dutch tugs the man back. No-one else says a word until he’s out of sight.

\--

John isn’t sure how many hours he spends traipsing around in the cold and the dark. He should have brought a lantern at least, he hadn’t thought that far ahead in his frustrated exit. It’s been quiet since he left, no sign of wild animals or pinkertons from the outside, and no real ruckus from the inside either. He can’t fight the slight twinge of guilt that eats away at him. For scaring Jack with his yelling, for making everyone stop playing that stupid game when they were probably only trying to brighten up a bad situation, especially for saying Arthur might as well have been dead. He didn’t mean that, and he knows that no-one for a second thought otherwise, but it had still slipped out in a moment of rage and he wished it hadn’t.

Even if Arthur spent the rest of his life like...this. It was better than him not being there at all.

It must be past midnight when he finally slinks back into the camp, grateful to note everyone’s gone from the campfire, sleeping in their tents or on the ground. It’s silent, and his head appreciates it, and he’s glad he doesn’t have to look anyone in the eye after his outburst. He can deal with the apologies tomorrow, but right now he’s still a mess of confused emotions and stress. He can only mask his worry with anger so much before he just becomes tired and sad. 

Slinking quietly around tents and cots he makes his way back towards his own tent, only pausing when he notices a lit lantern next to Arthur’s, illuminating the shadowed figure of the man hunched over on the side of his cot, head in hands. His entire body language looked utterly miserable, and much as John’s tired mind urged him to look in the other direction and keep walking, he finds himself slowly traipsing over.

“You….okay?” He mutters a little pathetically, watching the older man as he shakes his head without looking up. “Is it...you’re still missing your ma?”

The man grunts quietly, dismissively. Even that sounds sad. John groans as he finds himself sitting next to his older brother on the cot, patting a hand awkwardly against his back. 

“I don’t know where I am,” the elder sighs quietly, voice gravely but small, muffled by his hands. It takes a few more moments but he eventually looks up, staring into space with that same glassy eyed stare he’d had when they brought him home. He sounds and looks so defeated that it tugs at John’s heart a little. “Can’t even get home to protect Ma. She’ll get shot, I’ll get shot too, for not comin’ home. I guess that’s okay though, because I’ll see her again. Maybe he’ll shoot me before he beats me.”

“Jesus.” It’s all John can mutter, running a hand across his stubbled chin and wishing Hosea was awake, or hell, anyone, so he could pass over the reins on this one. “Listen, Morgan. No-one is getting shot. Not here, and not tonight. I know you’re usually the one keeping everyone safe but I- I can take over that now. You don’t have to worry about keeping anyone safe, I won’t let anyone get shot.”

The man hums quietly in response, he leans against his knees wearily, “You’re like Dakota”.

John squints a little in the dark, blowing out a confused breath through his nose. “The place?”

“The bear. Ma made him, he has soft ears. Protects me from Daddy, protects us from the lawmen,” Arthur mutters tiredly, as if his words are the most obvious thing in the world, as he stifles a yawn.

“Oh like, a teddybear,” John mutters to himself, kicking his feet in the grass as he feels the yawn catch on and fights it on his tongue. “How’s that work?”

“I dunno. Magic?”

“You really believe a magic bear is gonna protect you and your ma from being shot?” He asks teasingly, regretting it the moment the word come out of his mouth an he hears them. Christ, what was he even saying.

“I don’t know what to believe, but in a world where everything wants you dead, isn’t it perfectly human to want to believe in anything safe, even if it’s just for a moment?”

Blinking a little in bewilderment, John turns to glance at the man, watching his sad face and his mile long stare. “Awful smart thing for a six year old to say”.

“Something ma says,” He drones quietly. “I miss Dakota”.

“The bear?”

“Yes.” Arthur lets out a heavy breath, somehow looking twice his age and half his age at the same time as he drops his head back into his hands. 

A thought comes to John and he stands sluggishly, rolling his shoulders a little. “Wait here a sec,” he mutters as he wanders, heading to Jack’s toy box. It’s only a small tin crate shoved in the corner of his and Abigails half tent, containing a few wooden trains, some old books, a few crayons and some toy soldiers, but there’s also a bear. Ugly little knitted thing, it had been his, once. Miss Grimshaw had knitted it when he was twelve, maybe thirteen, he’s thrown a fit about it saying he was far to old for toys. It was mostly because Arthur had been teasing him. Still, he’d kept it, mostly because of the gesture, eventually giving it to Jack. The thing was old and worn, a slightly misshapen knitted coffee coloured lump with arms and legs pinned on, and with a bow made from a scrap of fabric. Jack had never taken to it, thinking it’s mismatched button eyes were creepy.

Pulling it out carefully as to not wake anyone, he brings it over and presents it to the man awkwardly, Arthur giving him a strangely unreadable expression. “Here. I mean, ain’t Dakota or whatever but like. Someone who cares made him, maybe he’s magic too.”

He doesn’t even have a chance to react as Arthur suddenly launches up and throws his arms around him, stumbling back a little with the force of the bigger man. “Jesus you- it’s just a toy. Glad you like it, I guess. Christ, you’re crushing my ribs”. 

The warmth of the man’s chest and his thick arms resting on his shoulders brings back a strange wave of nostalgia. He wonders when the last time Arthur hugged him was. Probably not since he’d been a bratty teenager, Arthur his big brother who was always getting him out of trouble, yelling at him for being an idiot while also bandaging his wounds and fixing his mistakes. It makes his chest tighten, just a little. All the memories he had with his big brother, he wondered if he’d ever even remember him. Just for a moment, John lets himself sink into the hug, telling himself it’s just the dry night air making his eyes sting as he pretends to be back. Back when everything was okay.

Muttering a quiet thank you, Arthur eventually releases him, sitting back down on the cot with an exhausted look and pressing the bear to his chest. It’s almost comically small in his big hands. 

As John stands up to head back to his tent, he takes one more look at his brother as he curls up around the toy and lets his eyes drift closed, turning away and letting exhaustion claim him as he returns to his own cot.

\--

Morning brings the smell of burnt coffee and the sound of chopping wood. 

Cracking open his eyes groggily, John glances around the small space of his tent. It must still be early, the morning light is still dim and the camp is mostly quiet. Though he slept strange hours of the day before and his mind has decided it’s time to rise. He only hopes Dutch is awake to witness his early rising, maybe he’ll stop constantly chiding him for sleeping in.

Climbing out of his tent he stretches dramatically in the crisp morning air, letting his eyes slowly adjust to the daylight.

When the first thing he sees is a familiar figure, wielding an axe ahead of him, tiredness leaves him in a fraction of a second and he finds himself bolting over, near knocking the weapon out of Arthur’s hands. 

The man seems to shake away his own tiredness, slamming the sharp edge of the axe into the tree stump before turning to face John with a bewildered, angry glare. “The hell are you playing at, Marston?”

“Ex-cuse me?”

“You mind not throwin’ yourself in my face while I’m wielding a damn axe? Not like you need any more scars on that ugly mug of yours.”

John has to step back and rub a hand over his eyes to chase away the sleep, letting the situation clip together in his mind. He lets out a quiet laugh. “Is it really you, Morgan? You back with us?”

“The hell are you on about?”

“How old are you?”

“Too damn old for whatever game you’re playin’ this early in the mornin’. You lost what’s left of your mind or somethin’?” Arthur grunts, shaking his head and grabbing the axe again to resume chopping wood. 

Perching awkwardly on a rock, John watches him as he whacks the log a few times with perfect precision. Just so damn bemused, and even more damn relieved. “You- you don’t remember none of yesterday?”

Pausing before he swings the axe again, Arthur furrows his brow a little in thought. He brings the axe down with a thud before turning to John with a scowl. “Not really.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Something happen that I ain’t aware of?” The older man snaps, putting down the axe as his hands move to his hips, tilting his chin in an almost threatening way. Yet something about the look in his eye gives away the hint of a lie.

“...No, nothing really,” John mutters, fighting the delighted smile tugging at his lips as he forces himself to turn away and move towards the coffee pot. 

And as the day goes on, it really does feel like nothing happened. No-one mentions Arthur’s strange episode, not even Micha, though John supposes the man is just holding onto it for a rainy day. Normality returns to the camp and it brings relief and celebration to all those who inhabit it.

And if Arthur never returns the bear to Jack, well, John isn’t telling anyone about it. 

**Author's Note:**

> [There was a really interesting film on tv yesterday about age regression as a coping mechanism under incredible distress. I had this vaugue idea in my head and wrote the entire thing in one go without an outline. It's a goddamn mess and I am Sorry.   
> I'd mostly wanted to write something about Arthur being burried alive and becoming a bit claustraphobic afterwards but this turned into something else entirely.]


End file.
